When Winter Breaks
by KayMoon24
Summary: Dealing with the death of his wife, Mary Morstan, Doctor John Watson's life turns incredibly bleak. That is, unless, the distant, and cold Sherlock Holmes... can reach out to him?
1. Chapter 1

**Updated for typeos. 9/012.**

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**~*~ When Winter Breaks ~*~**

REPRINTED FROM THE NOTES OF A DR. JOHN H. WATSON:

It is now December, although, Winter had long fallen over my world for many months. I couldn't help but feel unbearably cold and consumed in dark thoughts. I usually do not record anything else but my speculations and various cases of my roommate, the infamous Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but more and more so I've sought to be quite alone with myself and my fingers find the ink or typewriter more dependable than a human companion that I'd really like to admit to myself. As much of an impassionately valued friend that I do commit in Holmes, he is as much as I described him in my theories- a man whom often keeps emotions in his body and thoughts on his tongue. Never are the two switched. And that is the barrier to which even I think the great detective cannot surpass.

I've yet to distinguish which emotion is keeping shelter in my mind but it seems not on a bit on the edge of wondering away. In this however, I find _not_ my terrible depression as I should call it, worrisome, but of my appearance to Holmes. Ever since I had returned back to my affairs here in London and back into the welcoming arms of Mrs. Hudson, Holmes has been nothing but warm and courteous to me, which I know I should find very well forth. I fear greatly however, that this shadow keeps my mouth from unturning and my person unapproachable. I've learned I want nothing to do with the wide world as a whole, let alone this home or my roommate, for whom ironically I've spent a good many years or so of my life wanting to learn everything of. Shameful to say I feel damned at this time for Holmes has never been so fascinatingly open or friendly towards me than I've seen him for the good part of our odd friendship.

I'm quite sure Mrs. Hudson knows very much well why I've returned, though I am not unalarmed to say still brings tears to my eyes at this very word, but I've let to tell Holmes of the reason. My beloved wife is dead, and for the short year I've gotten to spend with her in our delightful little bubble of bliss I've never felt more the need now run and simply disappear. It has made me half a man than the cripple I already was- and what I am now I cannot say. I am a doctor, and was a solider, and I was often very proud of such ranks. The war has taken my nerves and I remember apon quote that the first downfall I bestowed apon Holmes when we were met and he acquired them; that in such, I cannot take too much stress or rows. But never in my entire life have I wanted to strike a mere innocent man on the street with my cane or atake to my pistol in wonder if I could feel it's barrel heat up apon being fired and not just this bitter chill in my blood.

If there's a place I find myself more at ease when I am not simply nodding endlessly at Holmes' chatter, my ears not hearing a word he's saying, is in the kitchen. I think I love the kitchen so for it is the place in my previous establishment where I'd arise in the morning to see my wife tending her garden through the wall's spacious window. I'd often stand here, warming up the worried tendons in my shoulder and leg, drinking my coffee for quite a while before I felt I could move myself well enough to greet her. I did not mind watching her though- it was what I had discovered so fondly as, "A Simple Pleasure of Life". In my home here in London, there is nothing but falling sooted snow and ashen fences. Not a pot or flower in sight- and the small kitchen has no such window, but I find it has the same euphoric calming effect, much as I'd hate to compare to the two; to how Holmes tinkerous mind must feel when he's attempting that dreadful cocaine habit of his.

Apon the considerate, I often find myself standing there, rubbing my bad shoulder for it's always acting up when the seasons are changing, and looking quite stupid. She'll go about her business, I think out of her compassion towards me, but I feel I'm becoming a bother and getting rather in her way. But if I could help it, I would; I often find myself arising even deep into the night to stand in the moonlight pale, spice smelling room- more than once so embarrassingly running run into the maid or Mrs. Hudson herself. I've opened my mouth a few times when asked why I am there and not in my bed but my tongue always stops me short when I spy her tired, weary eyes and on my tongue sits emotion and in my body the words I need to speak. Mrs. Hudson, God bless the poor women, is of course, a widow. If it's anyone to confine into, it's her. But I cannot do it. She's far too busy and I fear comparing my current situation with her long since dealt with one would cause the dear women far too much pain, and that I will not be held responsible for.

I dreadfully fear this built up of emotions will cause an awful scene if I can't verbally talk to anyone soon, but Holmes I just cannot bare to tell. He seems to be my last leg of hope however, and for an irresmeasureably long moment in all of my days- I doubted the great Sherlock Holmes could solve this mystery- and with that my hope vanished. He is uncannily cold, unfeeling, and calculating. I simply doubt he'd take such measures- besides; I can hardly call my mood of melancholy a 'case'. No key can make this better, no amount of theories and deduction can bring my dear back to me. In the end I've found this-much like how the snow is bit by bit covering the bedroom's window pane with flicks and cracks of intricate layers of crystal and soon the outside world will be unable to see me, as much as I haven't been able to see the outside world for the last few months.- My winter, will never, end.

I found myself staring into the smoldering, dying ashes in the fireplace early the next morning after a restless night of not being able to sleep. I jumped out of my skin however, when a loud, harsh, squeaking filled my ears along with Holmes' cheery voice.

"Watson! My dear fellow, pleasure seeing you up this early. I thought I'd arise and fancy the violin a little myself."

He played on for a moment, and gradually noticing that I wasn't responded as he would have liked, he performed a curious moment that caught me quite off-guard.

I suddenly found I had his long, thimble hand placed carefully on the bow and his precious and beautifully carved prized violin held out to me.

For a moment, a new emotion filled my throat and I was overcome with a touched feeling that my repremandingly cold companion was offering such a protected possession over to me. But slowly I brought my eyes up apon Sherlock's face and I realized that I had been made quite a fool. His face was bright, and his lips fell into an eager smirk that was deceiving, but his clever eyes ruined the farce for him. Nothing in his eyes held the slightest trace of any emotion- just calculating imitations made to look like ones. He was curious, that was bright and true- his gestures, his tone, his posture, this offer- were all a simple show of curiosity. Curiosity to why I was acting ever so strangely towards him. He was not concerned, or compassionate. His puzzle like mind could not possibly conceive human feelings; and curiosity stood in its place.

I think he quickly realized I would not be so gullible, for something flashed behind his dark eyes and his lips formed a stern line as he stared at me. Yes, I could feel it now- he was thinking, searching me over, wondering, theorizing. I, his own Boswell, and he was treating like an ordinary client. I would have none of it! A red, passionate, furious anger shook me, and for once in my life, I release it onto Holmes like the many times he had onto me.

"I said I'd really rather prefer to be left alone," Said I, rising from my seat, standing over the slender man, his eyes cold and memorizing. " and if you'll have no common sense of granting me any human indignity, for I know how you so like to take much away from any intellect I possess, to grant me solitude; then I shall see to it elsewhere!"

And for once in his brilliant life, Sherlock Holmes stared at the backside of _my _temper tantrum and I stalked off to my room, feeling very much like a child, and slammed the mahogany door. Once there I couldn't think of what to do with myself- let alone go out face Holmes again. But I was just so _angry_- and I regretted every second of it. I felt silly, and trapped within my own four walls pacing around the room. Whenever Holmes had grown into one of his snips of temper or simply fallen into one of his many oddly lingerous depressions, I'd often sit by the fire and simply wonder what the Devil he did with himself for all that time. I, for one, was at a lost.

All these years I've worked so very hard to control my demeanor and temper. I sat down on my undisturbed sheets, my head in my hands. Damn it all Holmes! Damn him. Why? Why couldn't he just listen? Was everyone such a bother to him that he couldn't just open up for once? In all my days of thinking he had the most unhumanizing brilliant mind, I never really granted myself the thought of how very much it would eat me up inside.

I leaned back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I wondered what she was thinking right now. Was my love in Heaven? If there's anything a place, I wish here there. No God that I believe in had any right to take her so- or at least force her to die so miserably. And I, a doctor? A failure. Nothing. I had finally figured out what I was now. I, was a nobody.

I awoke with a gasp that night, drenched in sweat, my eyes sweeping the bed for my beloved, my shoulder a-fire. Exhaustion must have finally over taken me darkness of my brooding. My breathing dragged and I couldn't seem to calm myself for the life of me over such a childish fear- night terrors. I closed my eyes, and placed my hand on my aching shoulder, tracing the scar of where the bullet had pierced me, thinking not that for the many times in my life that I'd lay awake and be ever so happy that it didn't kill me- but wishing that it did. My wife's beautifully dying face flashed in my mind's eye. I wish the bullet and shrapnel had stuck my shoulder, severing it from my body and feeling the bones break and organs gush as I'd have laid there; in the hot smoldering ashes of my own personal hell of war, and have died.

Maybe it is my defiance of death that causing my love to die. Maybe it was all because of my fate in being, and my meeting of her. And if not my own destiny the distorted hers, I was a doctor. A doctor that couldn't even save his own wife's life. No, no, I had to sit there, by her bed, night after night, as her breathing became shallower and labored and watch the life be shut out of her deep, blue eyes. The flowers outside in her garden began to wither, and I never again found the time to water or care for them. I knew by then it wouldn't matter. It would be Winter soon.

In the background of my woolgathering I could hear the soft, gentle playing of a violin. I finally confessed to myself the thing I knew I had to do the moment I opened my mouth in anger against Holmes. I'd have to swallow my pride, and apologize.

The next morning, I unreadily and drowsily awoke to someone tugging at my arm. Alarmed, I shot up like a rocket, my leg protesting- to come nose to nose with Holmes.

"Good morning Watson." Holmes cheerily said, slandering backwards and presenting me with a tray of tea and biscuits. I blinked slowly at him. _This wasn't happening…_

"'orning Holmes.." I grumbled. I gripped the tray to stop my hands from shaking from the freight he had given me. He knows better than to do such things!

"You know Watson," said he, "I've been thinking that I've been most unappreciative of you lately. And so," He smiled a rare smile here- "I made you your favorite breakfast, and in bed!" I thought for a minute, my face twitching. _Bloody hell he did!_

"I bet Mrs. Hudson put you up to this." I glanced at the open door and swore out of the corner of my eye I caught just the slightest trace of the edge of Mrs. Hudson's dress and heard retreating footsteps. "You didn't even know what my favorite breakfast was before hand."

Holmes stopped for a moment, placing the tips of his hands together and sat on the edge of my bed. "Why, Watson, of course I know your favorite breakfast!" My brows furrowed and I placed my head in my hands.

"No Holmes, you don't." I sighed. Mrs. Hudson meant well, but Holmes, in this sort of dealings, is not well meant. He looked utterly offended for a moment, his dark eyes watching me intently. I very much felt like I was a frog pined to a laboratory table.

"Watson, my dear follow, let me conclude to you how I know. I can tell from the slight shaking of your hands that you are still very much on nerve from your war days, and so calming tea- and from those days I do recall you picking up a peculiar flavour; Jasmine I presume? I also know from your puffy eyes that you are completely and utterly stressed, an obvious fact to most- but- it is not physical stress, it is emotional stress as well. I believe it is well adjusted to you finally come back home and are uneasy. Also I know that right at this very moment your leg is hurting you, you left eye twitches when it does. I know that from the site of your bed and the way that your sheets are spread about that you did not sleep- the clumps, the curls- you my friend, when at ease, are the picture of organization. I believe it's why you hate the state of my messes so much, eh?"

He grabbed a teacup, and slipped it gingerly, waiting for my usually open-mouthed-in-awe jawline. It didn't come.

"Holmes," I said, trying best not to bare my teeth." you don't know the first THING about me! Sure, you can guess! You can conclude the tiniest details and facts at a moment's notice, but yet you fail to deduce what the details are for! Yes, I do infact like Jasmine tea- and to me, it is not calming. I like it, because it tastes good. If you were in my body, you'd know nothing ever stops this shaking- it's always there. Second, my left eye is twitching, because you are absolutely _insufferable_! And how the devil would you possibly know how I sleep? "

"Well, I've watched you, of course, and I've-"

"You've watched me sleep?" I sputtered, my gut twisting in a building rage.

"Well, of course, you get up at all ungodly hours of the night and day, it's not unusual I'd come home to find you asleep downstairs or otherwise. And I play the violin so naturally-"

I made a rather ridiculous gesture to the door. "There's a DOOR Holmes! You shouldn't! How could you even?" He was looking quite alarmed by now, his dark eyes flickering- obviously this wasn't the reaction the great genius was expecting. "How dare you-"

He cut me off shortly. "We're ROOMATES Watson! It's not like it's some crime- It's a door, yes but sometimes it is open and I'll need something from this room so I-"

"Speaking of which- you're in mine." I tested, my eyes glaring, sweat beaming down me. I've never been so utterly furious with Sherlock Holmes all my life.

For once, the mastermind looked a bit taken back. "Wait..what? Well, of course- I mean-"

"Get out Holmes."

"Now Watson, I know you're angry, but I think you're being rather childish." _I_ was being _childish_?

Out of complete rage I grabbed the beautifully hand painted orbital tea-pot from it's nice little tray, and smashed it to the floor, and pronounced each word very carefully, and very loudly.. "GET. OUT. HOLMES!"

And with that, I watched my best friend defeatly spring from the room. I was breathing heavily out of my nose. I made my way to the door and softly shut it, hearing the faint click of the lock. Everything hurt- I was seeing red- My shoulder rang out in pain and I gripped at it tightly, sinking to the floor beside the door. I stared at the beautiful broken pieces of Mrs. Hudson's once lovely teapot, and the scattered biscuits, and felt most shameful. Oh god, what was I doing? Becoming..? I've never felt so angry in all my life. Holmes was right. He was absolutely right. I continued clenching my shoulder there for many hours to come- I couldn't tell when it was nighttime anymore anyways.


	2. Chapter 2

The hours flew by more unnoticeably than I'd like to admit to myself- as if my own conscious had suddenly forgotten to exist and record my surroundings; I stayed in the position long until dusk had set, and much further after, apon realization. Or at least, what I could make tell. The window adoring my bedroom wall had long casted over into a thick sheet of white and glass like snow. Stiff, and snore- my left arm giving off a demure, pulsing throb,- I stood and moved my hand to touch the chilling pane. Even as I move my hand over this machine to write- I find not the slightest trace in difference in temperature between metal, ice, and man.

Watching the snowfall, I cannot but help to think of my dear Mary and her poor garden. The snow outside is quiet, but relentless, much like her dea-…. How I _hate_ this weather. This decaying madness spreading over all the hope that summer once brought forth. They say winter is only renewing for the pleasure that springs brings. I cannot help but break my good standards and become to a lower version of myself that slips through the cracks of my silent bitterness and scoff at these men. Have they no mercy for those who are only ever granted a summer love? And yet, once more, I find mercy is not common in the hearts of men, nor nature. And- my thoughts suddenly stopped, along with my fingers amongst the keys.

Holmes. How ironic of me to speak of the hearts of men, when I myself was so unkind to Holmes and of course Mrs. Hudson's-

My God! My eyes flew to my carpeted flooring, but I traced no signs of shattered specks of glass nor chips of cups. Not even the crumbs from the biscuits I was presented. I begrudgingly dropped to the floor and quietly went about my lodgings, only to find everything was clean and bare as those many days before when moonlight and sunlight would shine along the floor and I would be dancing with my wife in our own sitting room-

The mess is simply gone. Or was it more so; I was simply refusing to perceive it still? I searched my current knowledge of documented medical cases concerning patients that could not remember certain specific occurrences in front of them, not matter how much evidence is presented to them; but I safely assured myself that I was sane. I'd have to be. I could still recall my outburst and spiteful, shameful display of shattering Mrs. Hudson's teapot and threatening Holmes out of my room. I did not need to evidence to stop that memory from sitting heavily on my conscience. But yet it was a curious thing for it to be so unmistakably gone without a trace.

Without remembering neither my brash embarrassment nor focusing on what or whom I might face by the time I had my hand on the cold brass knob, I threw open my door. Stepping out, I never fully realized just how incredibly dark the sitting room was. Abruptly, I caught my left arm on some inanimate object and shamefully swore at it with such fury on my breath, I was quite grateful that Mrs. Hudson was not around to hear it when I finally came about myself. I glanced at my shoulder and in the fleeting shadows noticed a great, open gash.

Strangely, I did not focus on my newly acquired wound for too long. An interesting affair I've began to notice; my thoughts tend to rather speed around than to stay on one subject for very long. My eyes swept the depths of the room, and quickly they came to a halt when I noticed the unmistakable silhouette of Sherlock Holmes amongst the sofa. I froze where I stood.

My heart bounded nervously in my chest, and my thoughts flew rapidly. Do I approach, and simply apologize for my actions? Is it even worth mentioning again?..So many methods I could go about for recovery; and yet I knew they were in vain. Holmes would rather bite me like an adder with his own backlash of my previous processes, or he would simply glance me with his gray eyes and question what the _deuce_ I was talking about at such a late hour.

After much debate, I simply padded over, my shoes pressing softly with the rug draped about the floor.

"Holmes." I said, alittle too rushed and unevenly. There was no response. The couch cushioned back still towards me; I continued walking the rest of the way around to fully face him. I cleared my throat quietly before starting again.

"Holmes, I'm..terribly sorry-" My eyes scanned his brooding form, and suddenly my mouth shut closed all together- for before me was a scene of such rarity and so very unnatural to nature itself, I simply couldn't believe my impeccable timing. Sherlock Holmes, _fast asleep_.

I could feel my head tilting to some minute degree, much like a confused, faithful dog staring up at some particular action his master was taking. What has it been now? Seconds maybe, and I still couldn't believe my eyes. Any moment, I was awaiting for his clever, aluminum coloured eyes to snap open and regard me with such an aware look of clarity that I would immediately feel as if _I _was the one with his eyes closed the entire time, and never vise versa. But a- what was it? A full _minute_ now? It couldn't be. No.

I quickly glanced at the grand Chester clock high above the stair banister out of the corner of my eye- not daring to take more than half of my peripheral vision off the of sight before me. I found it rather ironic that this was the very thing I had yelled at Holmes this morning for doing- and yet here I hypocritically stood. But I felt much more like I was engaging in some newly discovered specie of animal in a wild life documentary, being recorded for the very first time to all man- and not just looking at my dozing, eccentric flatmate. The clock read out to me that it was far later than I could have ever inquired to on my own guessing. Nearly one in the morning.

I sighed lightly before taking a seat in the opposite facing chair, quite unsure of what to do with myself now. I moved my keen eyes across Holmes' figure, and found him to be stretched out along the couch- one of his pale hands tucked under his chin as if he was still in pure, undisturbed thought. In fact, I would have simply regarded him as farcely so; if it weren't for my medical knowledge of knowing other wise. I could tell from the relaxed contortion of his shoulders and how deeply and slowly he breathed that his heart rate was far too low to be in a conscious state. Discreetly as he may have tried; he was much more than simply resting his eyes whilst pondering.

Suddenly, the peaceful silence in the room lit a burning emerald flame of envy inside of my chest. When was the last time I had fallen asleep that way? Trapped in such a tranquil, and peacefully captivate mindset? Further more; when was the last time I had even fully _slept_? I clenched my fist and was instantly startled by the pain that suspiciously floated down my arm. I glanced over and re-remembered the bleeding injury there. To calm myself, I took in the rest of the room. Once I could breath normally, I returned my gaze back to Holmes.

Running the frame of his body down, I noticed that in the long, nimble fingers resting across his stomach; catching the frail light in the dim of the room, was a bright, white piece of glass. Thoroughly alarmed, I nearly moved to gently remove the object, fearing it might be hazardous in the many unaware motions we all go through while asleep, but another flash of faint light caused my intrigued eye to wander. There I saw before me, on a side table, just off to the end of the couch, sat Mrs. Hudson's teapot nearly fully restored.

Suddenly the burning fire in my chest went ice cold; much like someone had slightly wet the tips of their fingers and snuffed it with great intention. The flumes from the after burn of it hit my brain in some nauseating way that mixed with my bitterness festering on the roof of my mouth and the shame on my tongue. And then it all dawned on me; if this was any way of showing affection for someone by simply a handshake or embrace- Holmes would show it by repairing back together Mrs. Hudson's priceless container. _Hundredth_ piece by miserable _hundredth_ piece.

I sat there in stunned silence for a moment where time is simply un-recordable. Shame eating away at my core. It was my irrational actions that lead Holmes to be in such an exhausted state (regardless of his own..unique..dormitiory habits.). Was I simply just a burden to everyone I come across? The Funeral mourners, Mrs. Hudson, now Holmes…  
was I ever to Mary?

The cold feeling in my chest swept through my veins; suddenly I could no longer feel the warmth in the room. As if to correlate in ironic misfortune with my reminiscing, I saw a faint shiver coast through Holmes' body. I got up quickly, grasping my jacket from its place on the stand in the hall, and laid it across him, hoping he'd warm up soon enough. I personally could not tell what temperature it was in the room. My own skin, in all depraving matter of the word, felt dead to even my own touch. I could no longer feel the rhythmic pulsing of the wound on neither my arm, nor the slow liquid that fell from it.

I continued staring at Mrs. Hudson's nearly finished teapot; the small, carefully thought out and skillful bits forming together into a delicate pattern of fragility and elegance across its smooth surface. I felt ill once more, and knew I'd have to get some fresh air soon. Besides, sitting in my bedroom for over twenty-seven hours cannot be any healthier than my depression would allow.

Opening the door and stepping my way into the frozen, London air, my body was indubitably unprepared for the sheer numbing force that hit every cell in my skin. My thoughts at the time did not give it many a pause for thought, my feet simply moving down the steps and onto the crystal, moonlit street. If I think hard enough, I seemly recall wearing only what I had fallen asleep with. Which, though I admit, mind you, was not a smart choice at the time, consisted of nothing neither warm nor protecting from the cold. Some over-barrenly brutal part of me edged on for the wind to bite at my face harder and for my eyes to water as if to simply feel pain. As if to invoke simply feeling _something_.

I took a left down Baker street, my bad leg occasionally giving me trouble over certain slicker spots as I went. The snow fell lightly around me and across my shoulders. A small feeling inside me was tapping at my heart, as if to say: _What a beautiful night!_ But alas, it was quickly drowned out by my ever-quickening footsteps and labored breathing as I moved towards a destination, even unknown to me.

A block or two over, as I simply let my mind go ultimately blank and feeling as alive as the cold, pavement under my feet, I took curious notice that I was completely alone in my stroll. There was no crowds, nor yelling of the homeless, coughing of the sick. Granted, it was of course very late; but it was in this moment where I simply felt my mind plunge deeper into the river of isolation of my soul. I realized that I couldn't escape this alone feeling from inside my own dorm, to outside, as much as I simply craved being alone. I was walking the fine path between being in peaceful solitude with the rarity of having London's streets to himself- and wishing some poor, deranged fellow would sneak up apon me and knife me to bleeding death for the paper in my wallet.

My thoughts wondered to holding my wife's hand on the moonlit scrolls we would take, and involuntarily I turned my head to my right, and saw that my solitude would not last. Just around the bricked and ashened building's corner, there was a group of young women; dirty, and yet their silhouettes hauntingly beautiful in the snow and mist. In spite of myself, I could nearly smell the sent of their own desperation that wavered into the chilling night air. Alarmed at my judgmental nature, I looked away, trying to shake the feeling that Holmes must harbor towards all women; no matter what type he'd meet. These poor girls must have had no choice but to sell themselves even in such horrid season!

To abide my thoughts, I quickly turned my attention river that ran along the bridge I found myself crossing over. Glancing down into the deep, freezing water a peculiar thought bombarded me. What if I simply was to…. _jump_? I paused in my footsteps, and turned, stepping slowly towards the edge of the structure. I would be taken dead from hypothermia within minutes- mere _minutes_- and the echoing, churning abyss of the water would swallow up my existence and there would be no more pain, no more tears, no more-

"I'd do _you_ right good, lov'." a female voice whispered promiscuously to me. I jumped alittle, and turned back to see that one of the girls I had taken notice before had rightly latched herself onto my arm. I turned back towards the water. I dearestly and deeply assure you, my friend, that wanted absolutely _nothing_ to do with that woman, or her…preoccupation. She ran her fingers down my shirt, or so I was dimly aware. I believe that was one of the last moments I could feel something physically. My body was becoming dangerously numb, but of course, I did not mind. I must have moved my facial features in a way that pleased her, and invited her to stay with me, for whatever direction I chose to move, she stepped along side me.

I moved my feet if only to turn from my suicidal relapse and walked with the streetwalker. She spoke the entire way of the stroll; but of God knows what, I could not inform you. Her voice, though very accented in a poor, unproper fashion, was indeed nice to listen to. I allowed my thoughts to wonder into the secret, locked passages that only a woman's voice could open in my mind, and wallowed in memories of Mary.

Was it in that merry season of wonderful fall that I had met Mary? Ah yes, September. The leaves that once changed here with beautiful reminisce, now shone barren and beaten, heavy with lifeless snow. I can even still recall the scent of her perfume that hung on the wind as we walked..or the way her light, gorgeous hair bounced in the most charming way between a young maiden and womanhood. I believe the memory I treasure most of all is when I first met Mary. It was in the case of "The Sign of Four", with Holmes two years ago, when she had required for his services. "..Until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me."..

It was here that I was abruptly shaken back to reality when the woman before me had stopped and was now gazing at me expectantly. I glanced slyly around myself to recollect my barring and found that subconsciously and nearly psychopathically, my path had led me to the gates of the resting yard that Mary had been recently buried in. I studied the gate before us and realized I was once more entering the next circle of my personal Hell on Earth.

My gaze was turned slowly when the ragged and shivering woman before me reached up and turned my cheek to look at her. I cursed myself for not having a coat for the poor creature- _creature_, God, shall I revoke myself more? I'll most assuredly be as bitter towards women as Holmes! I correct myself; the poor _woman, _a coat. I quickly began removing my shirt for her when suddenly I must have provoked something else in the manner, and she began removing her clothing as well. Thoroughly alarmed, I quickly stopped the advancement at once, and offered her my shirt and whatever amount of money I had rapidly pulled from pocket.

She stared at me funnily, and her eyes- my God, her _eyes_ look just like my wife's! My stomach gave a huge twist and I leaned my bare back against the cold iron bars of the gate. The woman to my side must have had quite enough of my foolishness however, for she slapped me across the face with such power that I did not ever expect to come from a woman and disappeared- clothing and money in hand. I nearly breathed a sigh of relief at her departure.

Although I could not feel my cheek, nor stinging sensation that was supposed to be resting there, I continued through the frozen, dreary gates and amongst the icy tombstones. The dead grasses and broken slabs crunched under my footsteps. I felt it was here, I should undoubtedly feel some type of emotion; twinge of fear, a strike of sadness and destitute. But alas, as I scanned the rows and monuments and decaying angels, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Suddenly was over taking by the stillness and lonely of the graveyard. Even in winter, there were no mourners, no passing bells. I was the only one around in the frozen, dead world, around me, yet I still felt apart of it- or more so; I wished that I were. I must have walked through the graveyard for many hours- for the next thing I knew I was on my knees in front of Mary's gave, my tears frozen in mid-stream down my face. I was so close- so _close_ to being near her again, and yet…and yet..

I remember that I had tried to stand but the soreness in my knees gave way, and I slid down once more across the ice, my hands gripping the smooth, cold headstone. I tried again and again, but to no avail. Finally, I rested my head against her grave and closed my eyes- a strange warm suddenly over taking me, raising from my chest. In that moment, I regarded it as inner peace. In foresight, the medical doctor in me now knows that it in one of the brutal, euphoric phenomenal defenses associated with the final deadly stage of prolonged hypothermia, and my body was giving its last effort to stay warm. I must have miraculously fallen asleep there- for the next thing I knew, I felt some type of ghostlike hands shaking me awake and then disappear. The darkness of the dead London night had broken into dawn.

Most assuredly to you, I am very unaware of how I miraculously made it back to Baker Street alive that morning; let alone to flat 211A. I stumbled through the door- my teeth chattering so maddeningly in my skull I was sure that by now I had bitten off my own tongue, and was simply too numb to feel it. I wrapped my arms about my chest and dropped to floor, the shock of the simple heat in the air causing my body to convulse. I managed to strain my eyes to Holmes, who was still asleep on the couch. His body highlighted by the breaking dawn was more relaxed and stretched out by now. One of his legs hung dimly off the arm of the sofa.

I suddenly was over-come with the feeling of not wanting to wake him. My thoughts shattering and scattering across my brain with random phrases of : 'If I am as still and as quiet as possible, he may rest- and I shall simply die-' _Die! Yes! That was the very word_! My suicidal thoughts taking over once more._ But would death be enough? Would it be enough? If there be some cruel, merciless God- would wishing to die in the act of suicide to be with my wife be the ultimate sin that would reject my soul from Saint Peter?-_

Only mere seconds of these absurd thoughts- but still they haunt me. My sight grew dim as I still gazed at Holmes. I can vaguely recall when his platinum eyes' suddenly lighting up as they opened and focused to mine, but my world was slowing down and blurring. My lungs felt as if they had completely iced over, and I coughed, flinching into the wooden floor, my nerves on fire. The last thing I remember was Holmes rushing to my side faster than my brain could register, his hands pulling me up- his mouth moving too harshly and quickly in speech for my numb lips to answer. I couldn't understand him for life of me. All I could think about was that his skin felt like someone was holding burning coals to my flesh. I do not recall if I screamed aloud in pain like I had wanted- everything suddenly went completely black, and gloriously silent. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Reader; I write these first few pages down in half speculation to if they really even occurred, half as evidence to convince myself for something beyond simply journalizing- and nearly _all _percent that I am a harborous and possessing man; and any image, feeling, sound, and word that I remember spoken by my wife, I will record if only to look back apon and perhaps feel alive again. With these things in mind, I beg to you- please do not think me an undignified, desperate man. To this: I begin to write.

In the blackness behind my eyes, I wondered if I had finally braced death's door, but it would appear that possibly fate, had other ideas for me.

"_John_?" I heard the most beautiful voice call to me- my common name seeming to waver and shimmer on her soft lips. I opened my eyes, and there she was before me, as perfect and radiant as ever, my beloved Mary. I can tell you nothing of our surroundings, or why she was even alive before me, but I did not care the slightest- I ran towards her and pulled her into my long-awaiting arms. She felt light, and warm, like some specified sculpted angel sent just for me.

I dare not waste precious seconds!- After a moment, I held her tightly away from me, but only at a few mere inches, memorizing her beautiful, pale face. Her brilliant blue eyes twinkled and filled with such life that I was utterly speechless- such a change from when I have saw them last! Fading, helpless, _dying_..I slowly brought one of my hands up, tempting fate by actually touching her skin. I ran just a single finger along her shoulder and then up her fragile, seemingly crystalline glittering collar bone, across her neck, her soft cheek, finally gently resting apon her dainty lips. My God, how _real_ she felt! I've been allow my hands…Do I dare taint with my lips? Is this the moment of truth that tests my dissolves of committing suicide? If I dare kiss her would a hangman's noose appear?

I quickly decided that even if just attempting to kiss her would have me hanged, it would forever be worth every second of life I've ever breathed. Mary gently smiled under my finger, and kissed there- the pressure like a dove unfurling it's wings to fly- so brief, so fast, and so unseen by the human eye, one could have argued it ever even happened. Right then I felt that harsh, wet tears were flooding my eyes but her surreal image never blurred. She slowly brought one of her petite hands up and folded my finger back into my palm, grasping my hand and holding on to it. It felt like a small heartbeat was connecting between our entwined fingers.

"_I missed you, John, ever so much_." Mary whispered to me, her voice barely rising more than so. I softly squeezed her hand in mine, tears now colliding from my face and onto the floor beneath us. I opened my mouth to speak, but it felt rather like it was closed shut. What had passed by now? A second? She must speak again! I _need_ her too! I attempted once more, my voice weak, and shaky, and very ungentlemanly-like, but finally I managed out:

"You've no idea how very much I've missed you too, my darling." Mary took no notice of my shaking voice, and she continued on, her voice pleasantly resonating in my ears like a bird's song.

"_And now you're here, my love_!" She let go of my hand and threw her arms around me, her body pressing into my chest, and for the first time in what felt like _years_, I felt whole once more. I wrapped my arms around her, burying my face into her shoulder, and gorgeous yellow hair. She smelled just as she always had- a mix of spring and flower pedals. I continued to cry, shaking her demure frame.

"Y-yes! Yes, I am, my dear and I promise I shall never leave you again!" I held her close, unable to stop myself from telling her all that I've been needed to say before her untimely departure.

"Mary you've no idea what life has been without you! There is no more moon, nor sun, or stars. There is no more music, or warmth, or peace. I am simply nothing without you Mary, _nothing_! Please, do forgive me!" I dropped to my knees, and grasped onto her silk like dress, unable to suddenly face her.

"My being a doctor- a _God damn doctor_!- and I still could do nothing to save you my dear!" I cried out, my rage boiling over at myself. "I couldn't live with myself, Mary. I couldn't _breathe_. There is no air without your existence. But I am _here_- if you could find it in the depths of your heart to forgive my weakness and accept me back!" Mary knelt down beside me, her soft hands gently caressing my face, and she pulled me to look back up at her. She then looked down at my hands, and I suddenly noticed that for some unimaginable reason, my wedding ring was missing! A horrible shock ran through me.

"You must understand, Mary, I _never_ took my ring off! I..I must have lost it somehow in the cemetery..I..I was..at your grave and I…..please…. suicide was the only way! It was the only way!" I grasped her hands, trembling." I _need_ you! It's undesirable, insufferable, and I simply was not strong- _am_ not strong enough- to go on without you! Please forgive my actions.."

After my speech, all the sound that was left was my choking sobs, and sputtered breathing. Finally I took a huge, painful breath, and pulled myself together as best as I could- though I was still weeping. "There is only winter, in my world. There is no Spring, no flowers. And…," I swallowed nervously, staring into her radiant eyes.

"..Oh.. my dear, your beautiful garden..it is destroyed. I hadn't the heart to take care of them, and now… they are gone.." I bit my lip hard to stop myself from losing any more of my composure.

Mary laughed softly at my closing statement. _"There is only spring time here, John. And it is not a worry, there are so many flowers. It is simply heavenly. I just know you'll enjoy it here."_

"I'll enjoy anywhere my dear, as long as I can stay with you." I answered steadily. "I am glad there are many flowers, I know how much you take delight in them. I promise I will tend to them and keep them beautiful always for you." I smiled, watching her blonde hair flutter and shine like threads of gold.

Mary smiled sadly at me for a moment, the look to her angelic face breaking my heart. I desperately wanted to make her smile again. My heart beat maddeningly in my chest, like I was some schoolboy attempting his very first shy kiss on long baring crush. I did not care if I was to hang if I could only make her smile again. I slowly leaned in and kissed her tenderly. Her lips were faintly warm, but alast, something was wrong. Suddenly I realized what my Mary's melancholy smile was for.

_"You're not dead, John, my love."_ Mary whispered to me slowly. Something inside of me broke and shattered into a million tragic pieces.

"_No_!" I cried, kissing her harder and harder, tears immediately raining down. "No, no, no, no, no-" I whispered between ghost like-kisses. No matter where or how I kissed, it was like the whips of a blown out candle, and I could never get a tangible amount of her. Finally, with a strangled gasp, I gave up, my head falling into my hands.

"….Will you take care of the flowers here,… for me?" I whispered tearfully, realizing that I would not be granted my angel. Mary kissed me again on the lips- so softly and so-barely-there, I felt as each touch was causing little cracks in my heart to suddenly appear.

_"Oh John,"_ Mary whispered, leaning forward and running her fingers along my neck and through my hair. _"The flowers don't need to be taking care of here. It is only on Earth that flowers need to be cared for- and I have already taken care of them there, as well, when I died"_

"Mary," I whispered back in my sad confusion, "I do not understand- I let them die! How could they have still been cared for after your-?"

Mary cut me off once more, kissing my lips to where suddenly, a brutal burning sensation occurred, leaking down my throat and then into my chest. My nerves were suddenly a-flame! Was this it? My awaiting damnation? I coughed, desperate to keep Mary in my view, but she was fading now, the colourless, nothing world around us tingeing to black.

_"I love you, John."_ Was the last thing I heard from my dear Mary.

I opened my eyes slowly again, the world before me now full of shadow hues and dark, patterned chairs and rugs. I was back in Baker Street, in my flat. I could not move my body, but I could hear the murmuring of someone working furiously over me. I wanted to cry out in pain whenever they touched me, their skin like fire twisting across my flesh. My insides were in aching, and my breathing barely coming through. I couldn't breathe! I couldn't breathe! I must have made some sign of distress, for the person before me took notice and hands gripped me, but I could not catch all that they were ordering me to do. They seemed in some kind of panic as well.

"Watson..? Can you…..Do you….I need….Can you feel…_Dammit_! If only…Why….It's my _fault_…,"

As I further regained consciousness, I recognized the voice. Holmes! I wanted to alert him that I was fine- if only I could just breathe!- but the words couldn't seem to come out properly. I was all at once freezing, and burning. I moaned in pain, and Holmes quickly grasped my wrist- I suppose to check my pulse, though I was unsure if I even still had one. Suddenly I was pulled to my feet, and dragged over to the sofa, Holmes supporting nearly all of my weight- he grasped my face and forced my eyes open.

Slowly his voice became clearer to me. "Watson, it is vitally important that you stay conscious- at least for now." He tapped my cheek, and I growled in response to the pain. He obviously knew his hot skin to my chilled hurt. "That a boy."

I slowly began shivering now, my body twisting and Holmes quickly yelled something to someone and before I knew it, I was wrapped in ridiculously hot blankets. Everything ached and burned- and when it wasn't burning, it was freezing. I vaguely wondered what Holmes must have thought of this. _God_, how to possibly explain..

Holmes still remained close to me- possibly staying there for much longer than maybe I was aware of at the time. If I were to chronicle it, I'd say it was the closest Holmes has ever stayed to me throughout our entire friendship. His nickel eyes studied me thoroughly, and I wish I had the energy to move away from him. I do hate it when he treats me like one of his clients. The warmth of the blankets loosened my frozen muscles, causing me to only relax. I tried to speak, but my tongue only stung as it collided clumsily against my chattering teeth- though I was thankful I had infact, not, bitten it off prior. Holmes must have taken notice, for he moved away and then returned with a glass in his hand, filled with some type of amber liquid. He offered it to me, and it took a few attempts before I could find the willpower to move my arm to take it from him. Embarrassingly enough, however, my hands shook so harshly that I nearly ended up sloshing it all over myself.

Suddenly a miraculous act happened before me that I did not expect in a hundred years. Holmes rapidly used his precise fingers to steady the glass as he helped me hold it to my mouth. I couldn't feel the glass against my lips, so my reaction of drinking was slow and heavily delayed. Holmes however, simply held it there as the seconds past. Carefully I tilted my head and drank deeply from the glass- only to nearly cough it back up. It tasted atrocious, but it spurred warmth down my throat and the rest of my body.

I felt terrible, and wish I had the nerve to explain myself, but I could only take small sips of the drink and slowly flex my fingers and legs, feeling them sting and ache. It appeared however that I did not need to participate in conversation, as Holmes muttered to himself.

"I should have known better! I should have known! God, I swear, even _I_ can be so oblivious to the most obvious details! It is simply all _my_ fault, that is the entirely of the matter!" Holmes lamented to me. I could only stare back in my wide-eyed confusion. _His_ fault?

"I am…God, I am so terribly…," Holmes murmured, suddenly standing away from me as if it that would make his words flow easier. "I just can't believe! Why didn't I see it? Why didn't I know? I mean, you gave me your damn _jacket_!"

I coughed as the warmth in my chest must have loosed some swallowed ice and snow. What the devil was he going on about? I tried to talk and calm Holmes down, but only more coughing followed. Holmes swiftly turned back to me as he was now pacing the room.

"To think, I looked! I saw! I-I- waited! But no! I moved ahead, thinking- God, well, obviously I _wasn't_ thinking- and to think I found- and once more- You- you, _bah!_" Holmes spat in anger, though at whom, I was quite unsure. He raked his long fingers through his hair in fury.

He suddenly took a deep breath, and his eyes traced me once more, and before I knew it, he was bowing over me. Slowly, as if not to alarm me, he placed one of his hands to my cheek, and ran a thumb across it and I suddenly felt a sharp tug. He came away with a perfectly shaped teardrop in his palm, frozen in place. He slowly placed it on his index finger and rubbed it with a second finger, until steadily it melted. Then he simply and bluntly _tasted_ it- and I could see it in his eyes- salt. He now knew that snow wasn't just frozen to my face- but that I had been crying- no, _sobbing_.

I still couldn't feel my face very well, but I could bet to you, dear reader, that I was impossibly blushing with intense embarrassment. How I could not control my predicament! I should have never left my room! I coughed again, and simply pulled the blankets over my head- feeling very much like a child- but what else was I to incurably do with myself? If there was any bright side- at least it was warmer under there.

I could hear Holmes muttering once more, as if discovering salt had spurred his confusion more. "Of course, of course, and how to think that you could have possibly died and it- it- I just can't _believe_ my own stupidity! God damn!" He swore once more. Suddenly he yelling ceased, and quietness spread across the room. I heard Holmes' long strides on the floor as he adorned my jacket once more.

"I shall fetch you something to rid your cough, and your inevitable fever or illness that sure to occur with your prolonged hypothermia." Holmes told me quietly, and with that, he left.

With all the mad chaos, I simply stayed where I was and continued drinking, only leaning back more comfortably and replying my insane encounter with my wife over and over until the quietness of the room allowed me to sleep..

Afew hours later- or perhaps was it nearly minutes? I awoke sleepily to someone helping me up and to stairs, and then to my bed. The rest is blurr of blackness and passing time.

I finally awoke in a fit of coughing, but was about myself, and I had just caught Mrs. Hudson entering my bedroom. I smiled at her faintly to show her I was alive, and she smiled warmly back, embracing me in a hug. Even the slightest pressure made my body ache but, for good Mrs. Hudson, I reveled no sign of it.

"Dr. Watson! It is so good to see you're all right! Gave quite a scare to me and Mr. Holmes, you did." I glanced nervously away from the kind landlady- I gave _Holmes_ a scare?-, and noticed that the beautiful tea pot Holmes had been working on was now complete- and showed almost no signs of being destroyed. Mrs. Hudson must have noticed my peering and she quickly picked up the pot and held it out to me.

"Beautiful, isn't it? I rather think Mr. Holmes did a more bang-up job on its design than it was originally! It was very kind of him, really…," Mr. Hudson carefully put down the pot and began filling it with some type of power and herb, and then more recognizably, tea.

"He said he accidentally broke it- and that was right okay, but I certainly didn't expect for him to rebuild the entire thing! Very kind, I think. I know he doesn't show it much- but I think beneath that stone layer, he rather cares for us, Mr. Watson." Mrs. Hudson abruptly winked at me, and horrible pit occurred in my stomach. Holmes even _lied _for me.

Mrs. Hudson poured me a cup of the concoction and it's warmth felt very nice- I realized this must have been what Holmes had returned with. My throat suddenly felt much better. Mrs. Hudson gave me another warm blanket and left, telling me that I only need to call if I need her or Holmes.

I continued pouring myself cups of the tea when suddenly something hard fell onto my tongue, and I suddenly coughed it up and into my hand. And there it was, shining in the evening light. My _wedding ring_. Suddenly it all came crashing down apon me- Who had awoken me in the graveyard, why Holmes was so angry with himself, and now, how my wedding ring was returned to me- and it being inconspicuously placed in the tea pot Holmes had restored.

_Holmes had been following me the entire time.  
_


	4. Chapter 4

It hit me hard. Much harder than I could have ever possibly _imagined_, but it did. I carefully slid the band back on my trembling ring finger. Holmes followed me, but why? Was he curious? Or did he actually care to where I ended up..? Alas, I think it possibly a faint mix of both…but everything from the last day was such a blurr…As I lay here now, I must tell you, that if you are still thinking of me, my friend, that you must harbor some type of sympathy and I hope you still keep me in high mental regards- but as I glance over my notes by the evenings waning candle light, it appears that I wrote of meeting my wife once more. Well, no, that is incorrect- more so my dying _illusion_ of her. Which, given the circumstances of my heavily burdened mind and my…suicidal thoughts, I will pass it for now as _nearly_ admitable to a madhouse. I do not hope I'll think twice about that statement.

"Do you know what this is made out of, Watson?" Holmes quietly asked me, his voice lingering and breaking into my mind just long enough for me to grab a hold of out of my deep unconsciousness, and to open my eyes to the light of morning. It took a few moments for my eyes to finally adjust, and when they did I imminently saw Holmes standing to the edge of my bed, his back to me. In his hands, I saw something shimmering, but my bleary eyes thought nothing of it at first- I took the time to move all of my joints, and was so very thankful I had been spared of frostbite.

"It is made out of 5.5-karat gold, medium sized, though, specks of sliver contaminate it. Less than a year old, if my dates are not mistaken." I slowly glanced at Holmes, as he continued his observations.

"But that is simple to see really. What is usually unknown to the naked eye is that I can not only deuces quality, but also memories. But these memories are something that perhaps even escapes my great perception." Holmes twisted his occupied hand, and tucked his free hand under his chain in contemplation.

I then realized Holmes was holding my ring, and I reflexingly groped my hand for it in sheer disbelieve- coming out with a feeling of being exposed or naked without it. Then another thought hit me in a matter of mere seconds- Holmes had _taken_ it off my finger while I slept! A sudden primal feeling of rage and contempt arose from within me, and if I had the strength I fear I would have leapt at Holmes with a beast-like territorial rose of obtaining my beloved ring back! But gratefully, I lacked such strength, and could only stare pitifully at Holmes' pale, long fingers turned my band back and forth.

And the suddenly, Holmes opened his mouth and no longer was I hearing his words, but he was constructing images for me- every detail he remarked was suddenly there in my mind, and fresh memories played out before me. "It's here, the clips where it was clinked against fine silverware at-"

And there I suddenly was, the delicate memory of Mary sitting before me, as we dined at our favorite restaurant- there I could see my band clinking as I moved across the soft table cloth to take her warm hand in my own, and staring into her beautiful eyes, the candle flickering-

Holmes then twisted it backwards and now he was telling me of how the tarnish upon it was from where the condensation of my glass of water against my nightstand before bed- and there it was Mary handing me the water, her body held against mine- smelling of gentle flower petals- Holmes shifted it to look inside, his clever eyes seeing nothing but evidence, as if it was simply a foul murder set up, and not the blissful year I spend with my wife. Tears were coming back to me, and I opened my mouth hoarsely, telling Holmes to _stop_, but he continued on- turning the ring over and over, remarking places we had walked, how we had danced, how much it had be polished- with what, and why-

I whispered it, "S-stop.."

But Holmes paid no mind- his words rushing faster and faster, and I saw his pupil contracting with the shimmer of the ring that forced these painful things upon me! God, was he enjoying this? Reason tried to calm me- _No, no, he's not enjoying it- he doesn't understand- yes, that is it- he is like a child, unknown to these things and he does not understand- he sees the evidence- does not understand the memories behind them-_

"Of course, with your stronger leg here, it is where you proposed-" and there I was once more, on one knee, asking for Mary to spend the rest of her days with me- and was it worth it to her? Could someone else have saved her? I can see her reaching for the ring now, me placing it upon her finger- but no longer does it look like heaven's light- I feel as if I had just sealed her _death!-_

"S…stop.." I said again, louder-

But of course, Holmes in his brilliant ramble of stringing together some type of conclusion, continued, and for the life of my nearly invisible dignity I saved myself- the memories rushing up from my heart and to my throat and I cried:

"_STOP_!"

I was shaking. There was a sudden hushed silence over the room. Holmes turned to me, his eyebrow raised in confusion, and his mouth still open to prick me with the next piece of shattered soul he could devise from my band. I simply held out my trembling hand, and waited. Holmes tilted his head like a confused dog, -glancing my ring over one more time- dropped it into my palm.

When I finally gathered a controlled voice about me, I apologized.

"Holmes, I am so sorry- I just. It's..hard to.." but Holmes was already turning away from me, an _amused_ look upon his face.

"Not to worry old boy! You actually reminded me of something! It's been ages since I've checked my post, and I'm certain that if I don't reply soon enough, they'll think the great Sherlock Holmes has died, and stop addressing me. And for the sake of this month's rent, I don't think I should let that happen.."

Holmes left the room, and dazed, I simply could only stare at the ring in my hand, forcing the tears back. For once in my life I was not amazed by Holmes' brilliant observational skills- and in that, his reveling of the conclusion to me, as always. I rather wished that for once- he'd- he'd bloody _keep_ it to himself!

Suddenly there arose such a cry of terror from the sitting room that I quickly threw myself out of bed, my feet sore and protesting against the wood. I quickly ran into the room, and came to a stop, clutching the sofa's fabric in my knuckles for support and looking every-which way for the attacker! But my sight only rested on Holmes' frozen figure, and a perfectly previously undisturbed room. Holmes' left hand was stretched out before him, and in it was an unfolded, (yet heavily wrinkled) letter. His bright platinum eyes', I saw, were no longer reading the elegant writing, but were transfixed. I continued staring for a pregnant moment, and then, Holmes gave a long sigh, folded a free hand over his eyes, and thrusted the letter out to me.

"Bloody hell! When will the calamity _end_?" Holmes questioned the ceiling dramatically. I simply rolled my eyes in my bad mood, and took upon reading it myself.

_**221 B Baker Street,  
Addressees, Mister Holmes  
Sherlock Holmes,**_

_**Dear Brother;**_

My eyes dared not to tread further, for my hand started to tremble miserably, and the weight, feel, and description of the letter suddenly brought back painfully happy memories of Mary and I. It was a formal invitation of engagement, from Holmes' elder brother Mycroft. He was to be _married._

I rubbed my hand across my jaw (which was apparently now aching from it being clenched), and I suddenly noticing the rough stubble taken up there as if it had magically grown over night. Had I lost such touch with reality in my mind that now it is spreading physically on me? Good _God_, I'll look like Holmes when he's particularly ponderous about a stumped case for weeks on end!

"It looks like it is _tonight_, Watson, of all days!" Holmes exclaimed, then he went on to mutter more curses and strange, problematic phrases, before finally he turned to me and said, "Well, I shall go get ready then. I am sure this shall be a most….unpleasant evening." He then sighed. "I suppose this is what I get for not checking my mail more often. But I do _not _regret jabbing a knife through it! I suggest you wear your newest jacket-"

Suddenly it dawned on me. "I- I am going?"

"Going? Of course! Surely you won't leave me to the terror that Mycroft and his…_fiancée_." Holmes hissed out the word 'fiancée' with such a dark tone that I was curious to if he was trying to avoid some type of curse.

"We leave at five sharp."

I involuntarily wrung my ring about my finger until the skin was imprinted upon and painful. Holmes had no idea how unpleasant tonight was going to be. No idea at all.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's note**__: Terribly sorry for the ridiculously long update. For those of you that have alerted, favourited, and are still with me, I truly hope you still continue enjoying my story. I shall try much harder to crank out these chapters out at a more pleasurable pace.. As for now, my school has thankfully given me a free entire week off- which means I may write! Please…enjoy._

When five o'clock sharp came around, I stared tentatively at the clock, willing time backwards. Holmes, however, only 'tsked' my standstill, forcing me to join by pure ostentatious willpower against his brother. I nearly wanted to remark to Holmes how strange I thought it was for him to bend so willingly towards his elder brother. In all my years, Holmes hardly ever spoke of him, and when he didn't, he acted very much like Mycroft never existed.

Sore from my own stupid incident, I dressed as quickly as I could, even wearing the jacket that Holmes' requested of me. Although he called it 'new', it was in fact quite old. Over a year's worth, and I thus remembered that it must have been an article of clothing that I had left during my rapid departure to join my wife in our own lodgings. Dust laced it's sleeves, and I discreetly seeked the aid of Mrs. Hudson to help me clean it- for some peculiar reason, I moved about the flat in dire need to not draw attention to Holmes over the jacket. Once it was thoroughly cleaned, I adorned it, and waited by the door, fidgeting with my wedding band.

As silly and insignificant as the matter was, the dust on my jacket gave me the gravest sense of a foreboding nature that I just could not push away. My nerves were already in shambles over meeting Mycroft- and his soon to be wife- jarring me the longer I lingered over the thought- but the jacket would not leave my mind. Why would Holmes keep it there? He could have delivered it back, or sold it. It just sitting there in the dark shadowed back of my closet reminded me of a castoff. A lonely inanimate object, in it's own right. It reminded me of something else as well. Like..it was some type of scar.

Once Holmes was ready, we bid our goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson, and let straight off for the elder Holmes' manor. It was apparently a great deal far off- and it didn't take long for London to disappear into its casual foggy mist- and occasionally peek out at me from the windows to reveal pieces of land that I did not know. Holmes paid no mind, as he seeped into a bitter, annoyed silence- and in fact, when he did notice our surroundings, I found that it was _he_ that was directing the cabby! Or, more so, he spat insults until the poor horses picked the proper direction that their master did not go. At first I was alarmed, and mumbled an apology here, and there, when Holmes took a brief while to stop baring his teeth. But soon, it became clear. I have always known Holmes to be a private and secretive man- but now that I was fathoming the idea of his elder brother, a driver not knowing the way to his estate made much more sense.

"Holmes," said I, as I watched the cabby before us jump a the sound of a male voice- poor fellow probably thinking it was Holmes ordering him once more- I quickly dropped pitch. "About your brother…"

Holmes made a noise of disgust as he wrapped his mind around the questions I was about to bring forth. "My brother is a lazy, glorified, government placeholder that causes unnecessary changes and wars. He only cares about money- and quite honestly, I find the notion of him accepting a woman at his side to be all but a mystery," he then glowered, fixing his pale eyes into the moonlight, as pooled it's way across the seats of our cramped cab. "A mystery that I do _not_ want to solve." He added.

"I see..," I finished quietly, recollecting my thoughts. Of course, I had already known these things- Holmes' generalized insults about Mycroft are about the only collective bits of information I had ever known about his elder. It sat on my tongue, for the next half-hour, that I should inprouch for more information, but as the air became cooler and the night became darker, Holmes' mood shared perfect symmetry with the atmosphere. I wondered what it was that caused Holmes' and his brother to be so disdainful towards one another. Though, perhaps I shall never understand. I am an only child, and as odd as the tendencies that the Holmes' brothers so obviously possessed, I image the sibling fights and rivalry are not even beyond their grasps.

It was very dark when Holmes' ordered angrily for the carriage to stop, and out he flew, quickly rumbling up the long, flat and rectangle steps to a very prestigious looking manor. It was much too dark for my unknowing eyes to see where he was going- only the twisting shimmers of the moon alerted me to glimpses of high garden walls all about the yard and edges of the establishment, with ivy sneakily climbing up the walls and archways. The large and cleanly distinguished windows were demasked, but yet a dim sparkling of light still managed it's way through. I shivered as I too stepped out of our ride, thankful for my jacket. Holmes' must have found his way only from pure photographic memory of the place- and, not wanting to be left alone with a flustered cabby, I made my way after him.

The door was thick, and intimidating, with soft bits of light still poking from under it that highlighted our shoes. Holmes tilted his head carefully at the sight, and then scoffed, presumably seeing something that set him off further. He eyed the door, and then turned to me.

"Strange..I sense no other scuffmarks from shoes, or heels- no dirt has been brought in from the garden entryway. There is no sound coming from inside- in fact the door's very knob looks brand new. My brother is an anal man, but still, I cannot image such a place being so tidy when a party is being had. Unless.." Holmes' eyes widened, and he quickly made his way down the steps.

"Watson," he continued in a hurry, "We have be had- there is no party here. Quickly, before it is aware of our presence, let us leave-"

"Holmes," I said, abit shocked as I continued looking after his retreating figure from the door way. "Surely..surely he did not intend for us to travel all this way for nothing-" suddenly, I was blinded by a harsh, brilliant light as the door opened before me. In it's wake, stood a man- tall, well-dressed. He was built and not at all thin and bony like my flatmate, but not all-together 'fat' as Holmes' would remark him to be. He tilted his head in that same Holmes' fashion as he took in my form, and then his mouth opened into a pressed, orderly welcome.

"Doctor John Watson…, such a pleasure to see you at my door. I am sorry to inform you that  
actually, there _is_ no party, or event of the sort." Mycroft responded in a cold, yet charismatic way. "My brother is right."  
_"I bloody knew it!"_ I heard Holmes' yell back to us from the shadows. His brother sighed beside me, and suddenly his voice took on such authority that I found myself involuntarily whipping around to center on him as he replied to his brother:

"Sherlock, come back here. Really, is it quite rude to yell whilst conversing- let alone the fact that we cannot see you. It is generally considered _polite_ to be able to see the person you are talking with."

Much to my surprise, I soon heard Holmes' footsteps as he stomped his way back up the stairs.  
Holmes nostrils' flared angrily, "Then what the devil did _you_ call us down here for so late in the evening?"

"Ah, yes," Mycroft set his dark eyes to mine. "I just wanted to talk to Doctor Watson, actually." I suddenly snapped my gaze to Mycroft's. He wanted to talk to…_me?_

_"What?"_ Holmes' snapped. The look of surprise that over-came my companion was of such surprise that I imagine I mirrored it. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say, brother, I wish to talk to Doctor Watson. In private, actually."

Holmes rolled his eyes, and began down the steps once more. "Yes well, I don't care what you'd like out of Watson, but this was ridiculous- getting all dressed up. What does that make me, some delivery man?"

"A rather fancy one, I suppose." Mycroft mused. "You know, it doesn't hurt to look nice every once and a while."

"And you could stand to not eat such rich foods all the time, eh _brother_?" Holmes' huffed. "Come Watson- it appears we've just wasted our evening."

"Not at all; Watson has never journeyed here before, and I thought, seeing as you two accompany each other nearly everywhere together, why not just ask for Sherlock to guide you here? No late arrival, no getting lost, no worries."

I swallowed nervously, glancing between the Holmes' brothers. "I'm..I'm sorry?" It came out more as a question, but as I turned down the steps Mycroft caught my arm. I froze in my tracks. Holmes however, had already covered half the stairs down.

"Really, I think it to be most important that I speak with you, Doctor." His gray eyes' transfixed heavily on mine. Reluctantly nervous, I agreed. Before I could even alert Holmes to my decision to go inside, he was at my side, one hand uncharacteristically grasped on my arm- as if he was aware of my subconscious movement to go forward into the darkness of the manor.

"As a _pleasure _it is to always see you, Mycroft, let us get down to business." Holmes' jested, his grip tightening. I tried to discreetly take my arms back from both men, as I was still quite sore. "What do you just want with Watson?"

"I just want to chat with him."

I could feel the fire jumping off the two men before me like a freshly struck tree, smoldering from a lighting bolt.

"To chat? Really?" Holmes' eyes narrowed.

"Oh come now brother, I know you've just got your Bonswell back, but surely you can allow me to talk to him, just for a while- I know you-"

"Mycroft," Holmes narrowed his eyes further into dangerous slits, cutting his brother off, and I suddenly felt at a crossfire. Holmes suddenly glanced at me, his jaw locked in a hateful position- but not directed at me, just at my naïve wiliness to please others. "Fine," he debated after a moment, "I shall return in one hour."

"Ah, please, do just return home, brother." Mycroft caught me off guard with a smile in direct contrast to Holmes', who rarely smiled. "I assure you, Dr. Watson shall be escorted home more safely than Scotland Yard themselves could do."

Holmes released my arm with force, but not before making a show of grasping for my wrist and revealing my watch; his cat-like eyes somehow taking in the time. He then stomped down the steps, twisting back to glare at his older brother once more.

"It is nine o'clock now. I expect him to return home in an hour and forty-five minutes. That is including travel time. So help me, Mycroft, if he is not at least returned by midnight, I am sending Lestrade and all his dogs under the charge of Watson being held as a hostage. Good night."

It seemed to me that all I had done was blink, and suddenly Holmes dissipated into the misty shadows. Mycroft merely stepped back into the hall of the doorframe, sighing again.

"I can't imagine being around him as much as you are Dr. Watson. He can be so _dramatic."_

I was lead into a huge, grandiose hallway, full of remarkable paintings of Greek and Romantic proportions, large rugs, vases, hanging candle auras and other grand fixtures. I wondered in good manner that I should remove my shoes, as so I would not stain the fantastically ornate floorings- but Mycroft only continued deeper into his mansion, and, more or less perspiring, I followed.

Suddenly I became hyper aware of my presence in his house, and my eyes desperately searched for his soon-to-be wife. Her very idea haunted my vision, and it seemed every dark room we past- every study we moved through, I expected to see her there. Like a ghost.

When we entered upon his drawing room, he continued standing, but motioned for me to sit. I did so, politely denying food, and drink that his maids kept offering. I couldn't help but notice just how beautiful they were. Their working gowns and outfits sewed together with rubies and twinges of gold- and an uneasy, throbbing notion ran up my spine and into my shoulders of selfloathing. How _dare_ I remark other girls as _beautiful?_ And such ones that hold the position of servants, no doubt-

Mycroft glanced over me- his dark gray eyes sharing perfect symmetry with his younger brothers' as he nonchalantly regarded my discomfort.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. A fine pleasure it is to see you again." His voice was perplexity charismatic. I nodded carefully.

"Y-yes," I stumbled out. In all honestly, I was in complete and utter loss to conjuring up any reason pragmatic enough to why Holmes' elder brother wanted anything to do with me. "Same to you, Mycroft. It is an honour."

I floundered for a mere moment in my skull- had I in fact met him before? His imposing manner and image I was certain I would not so easily forget, like when one meets Sherlock Holmes.

"Indeed," his voice remained deep and full of some type of masterful control that I only barely noticed from my own dealings of his controlling brother. "But, you've only just arrived back in London, so I've been informed. You seem very unwell. Are you ill?"

I started. "I…had an incident ,the other day, but I assure you, I am feeling better." Awkwardly, I tried to make myself more comfortable in the presence of this eagle eyed man, but I only felt more scrutinized.

"Ah, yes. I see. This weather can be most relentless. How is your leg?"

"Er," I began again awkwardly glancing down at the subject at hand, "It's…"

"Ah! Wait!" Mycroft suddenly demanded, drawn up to his full height, he suddenly appeared over me, and I once more felt like a frog pinned to a laboratory table. Silently thankful for my army days of screaming generals, I did not shrink back into my chair from his quick notion.

"Yes..of course. That is most natural.." he walked.

"I'm..I'm sorry?"

"Your ring. You're still wearing your wedding ring," Mycroft lit a cigarette and lowered himself into a chair from across the room. I swallowed nervously.

"Well, that is..I..mean, how is-" I tried to get a hold of the subject. "How goes your happy engagement?" I gripped my chair nervously.

"There is none, Doctor Watson."

I could not help but quite valiantly hide the look of shock, and raging relief that flickered across my face. My grip softened. "..I-"

"Good, that is good," he drawled slowly, his eyes' glinting. "Your reaction is of what I was hoping for. You have every right to be relived. I am sorry to cross your occurrence here with such harsh revival of your wife's passing through my letter of invitation to my brother, but I could think of no other way to spur him to arrive," he paused, and chuckled lightly for a second, and I stared dumbfoundedly.

"You see," he continued, in a familiar rant that I used to only associate with Holmes, "I only must assume that if I wrote that I was life-threateningly injured, or dying by some rapid means, I would only expect my brother and you would arrive long after I was dead. Of course, that would only be for the mere moments of Sherlock looking over my body for clues to my killer, and then tracking him down to acquire him a _'thank you'_ card."

Mycroft smiled, and I continued to stare.

I could only blink as Mycroft analyzed me. This brilliant analytical thinking process _must_ be hereditary.

"Thank you," I responded softly, abit over whelmed by how little I've seen of Holmes' older brother, and yet how warm he was bingeing about my grieving so instantaneously. It was still more said than Holmes had ever done, and I had known the man for years. But deep inside I knew I couldn't blame Holmes'- he did, after all, awaken me from death, and fix my dreadful outburst of Mrs. Hudson's teapot. But I had come to realize that he was merely repairing the physical damage of things, and was not understanding why I was acting as I was.

_Am_.

There was a silence, and Mycroft flushed out his cigarette, requesting some type of fancy French wine in its place from one of his maids, leaving me to my thoughts of Mary, and then Holmes. Then he said something that took me entirely off guard.

"Did you know, Doctor Watson..," Mycroft voice seemed to purr in some reverbal manner that stopped me from ever interrupting him like I could Holmes. "That during your absence with your wife, that my brother wrote to me? And believe me, it is only in matters of utter _desperate importance_ that Sherlock ever writes to me."

And there it was. The feeling that the jacket gave me from hours before hand rushed back to me. I glanced at the clock on the wall, listening to it's trivial ticking of time as it seemed to slow down. The slightest feeling of claustrophobia swept over me. I found it hard to bring air into my lungs, which caused my sore muscles to ache. The sense of foreboding ran up my spine. Sweat gently slid down the back of my neck. Ironically, the drawing room was huge; the walls were high and everything was ornate and well-lit. Suddenly my brain snapped back into Mycroft's low drawl and he merely darkly chuckled at my delay.

"Holmes- Holmes _wrote_ …" I gasped. "To… _you?"_

"Every single day." Mycroft remarked condescendingly from his chair, and I could sense a dramatic rift rising- much like how Holmes' would have done to me. He took an unnecessarily long sip of his wine.

I cocked an eyebrow curiously and leaned forward in my chair, causing pain to shoot up my bad leg. Holmes hardly ever mentioned Mycroft that it was unfathomably hard of me to imagine them sharing penmanship. "Did…did he now?"

"Every day you were gone." Mycroft finished. I swallowed without relief, my throat scratchy. Mycroft then continued, whilst watching my minute, unnoticeable fit of nerves with his inescapable eyes.

"Would you like to know what he said?"

Slowly, I nodded.


	6. Chapter 6

"Ah," Mycroft laughed, "nothing that he wouldn't have said in person. Usually paragraphs of insulting remarks to me- but I took no offense. He can be so _dramatic_- and he was suffering so, he needed someone to take it out upon. Often I found it humorous, really, his barbed tongue. It made my secretary blush with embarrassment if she happened to pick up the wrong paper off of my desk-"

"He- Holmes…was-suffering?" I asked in disbelief. It took me a moment for my thoughts to come about full circle. I stood up straighter in my chair.

"Though," Mycroft chuckled again not taking interest in my interruption, "Sometimes it was rather trivial. He'd talk about the weather or Scotland Yard- sometimes new experiments he was working on. More often than not, he'd would muse to himself about whatever case he was working on, but I fear it did not do him any good."

Mycroft paused, and I could feel a dull aching starting at my temples. Both Holmes' were equally frustrating to get straight answers out of.

"Always, however. Towards the end, he'd mention you."

A shock ran up my spine. A spasm of empathy mixed with further personal detachment. "Me?"

Mycroft laughed. "But of course! Did you think he thought _you_, of all people, had ceased to exist?"

"N-no," I managed out."I just…didn't think.."

"So I've realized." Mycroft smiled. I still could not put two and two together.

"Perhaps a more physical example will help you Doctor. I noticed that the jacket you are wearing is one that you had acquired last year. Yet, as…messily, as you've tried to clean it, it is still retaining dust. Dust, from your closet, I expect. Have you ever thought to why it is covered it dust? Why that Sherlock held on it for that year's worth? He could not possibly wear it."

I took another breath, my heart rate gratefully slowing down. But yet, it still took much effort for me to speak. I just…_can't_ believe it.

"You…mean..that-" I began.

" That someone as cold and insensitive as _Sherlock Holmes_ would write about missing someone?

I nearly choked on my next breath. "He….he missed me?"

Mycroft chuckled again, flicking away the ashes of his cigarette. "I can see why my brother likes to keep you around, You often repeat things people say. Great for the memory, you know."

"No! No," I said exasperatedly, "I'm sorry..it's just. I didn't expect to come here. To meet with you. To talk about this." I motioned with my hand about the room pointlessly.

"You were his Boswell." Mycroft stated bluntly.

"I _am_ his Boswell," I tried not to growl my words. The tones in Mycroft words' were now pricking at that furious candle in my heart. I worried for if he struck a spark over its wick.

"He depended on you. It is not unthinkable that Sherlock take quite a spill over you not being around. You were gone for a year, Doctor."

"I know how long it was, Mycroft." An angry edge entered my voice. Was this some type of ill-intentioned guilt trip? And from a stranger no doubt! I gritted my teeth behind my closed lips. Mycroft only raised an eyebrow, as if to question my suddenly hostile glare- but I could not help it. I became so irate over so many things lately- so sporadically- that I only nearly realized my moodswing before I could stop it.

"Indeed, I am sure you do. Your time with your wife, considering her unfortunate passing must mean dearly to you. But let me point out to you that you are _not_ the only one that holds time to their heart. Take, for instance, myself. I very closely have everything arranged into a scheduled, and never deter from it."

From the second Mycroft mentioned his planning period, I was bombard with the canny mental image of Holmes remarking his brother's laziness- with led to an awkward chuckle escaping from me. Mycroft paused.

"Yes, I know exactly how my brother thinks of me, Dr. Watson. There is no need to hide his animosity." He trailed off for a moment, and I swallowed, unnerved at what to say next. He suddenly continued; he tone quieter, and lesser of its usual authority.

"Speaking of animosity, I have noticed, even within our brief period together, that…you seem, quite… _angry_, Doctor. That is not your usual nature. Tell me, when you feel this anger, how does it usually occur?"

I throat ran dry. I drummed my knuckles for a second on the arm of the chair, and then clenched it.

"U-usally when I am thinking of my wife. Or just..other..silly, useless things."

"I see." Mycroft commented quietly. "And, how is that anger usually let out?"

My face flushed as I admitted to my crimes. "Violently."

"And have you tried to make amends?" We both needn't to say who it was I was unleashing my rage against.

"Of _course_! I've tried..at least." I paused, being careful to not let my frustration turn into anger. "But, Holmes, he doesn't seem to even _want_ an apology- like it is no big deal. It eats me _alive_ inside, his reactions."

"Ahh," Mycroft sat back in his chair, and pulled one leg to cross over his other. "That is aggravating, I am sure, but, my brother must be too merry in simply having you around again, to care whether you are yelling at him, or are mundanely playing cards."

"That's abuse Holmes should not take." I said quietly, more to myself than to Holmes' elder brother.

"He does not consider it so. Sherlock is a brilliant, logical man. But, I'm afraid it is the emotions of people that trouble him. He has no idea how to go about the situation, so he continues as if it is no big deal. For, it is not a lie. Your outbursts, to him, are not indeed a big deal. But still, it bothers you."

"What bothers me Mycroft," I said letting frustration colour my voice. "is the way Holmes' tries to help. Or, not help. I don't know which is which."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in unnatural surprise. "That….is a new occurrence. You say Sherlock tries to 'help'?"

I swallowed, and stared down at my shoes, my brows furrowing. "Well…that's what it seems like, but I know it is just his method of trying to understand."

"This makes you extremely upset." Holmes summed up my emotions quickly though I had spoken with such little feeling besides perhaps, confusion or frustration.

"I understand that it may seem Sherlock is only out for his own good. For, often, he is. But he cares for you, Doctor Watson. Probably more than he's ever cared for anyone in his entire _existence_."

"That's quite an over-bluffed statement." I scoffed.

"Denial, is the first step," Mycroft smiled. My eyes widened. His smile lit my that ever bitter flame in my heart once again, and I leapt to my feet.

_"Denial?"_ I raged, "Denial? Are you saying that I should forget my wife in this matter all together? Over simply Holmes being upset? You are saying that I am _denying_ my actions? That I do not believe it is _my_ fault for all this tragedy?"

Although I yelled and the maids seemed to scamper from the room like ghosts, Mycroft did not even _blink._ As if he was used to such spontaneous rage.

"No, no, Doctor Watson. Of course not," his was voice collected, calm. "I am simply suggesting that you find a better way to let out your grief. That, life, often tragically, sometimes heroically, goes on. You are heading down a most self-destructive path. Please, sit down." He motioned once more for me to sit. I swallowed my rage, and bid it down faster with embarrassment. Oh God, did I just yell at Holmes' elder brother? Did my depravity know no bound?

_Self destructive_. Those words snapped me from my personal woe. The way his masterfully used such a word caught onto my teeth and tripped up my tongue. Perhaps it was my own sense of perception, or maybe, it was all my years of being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate that was finally rubbing off on me, but I could tell that Mycroft used that word many, many times before, to someone else. I slowly sat once more.

" I think, in a way, Doctor Watson," Mycroft's silver eyes set to my wedding ring, and then ever so slowly traced their penetrating way to my own. "It was his way of grieving.."

"He..could have wrote to me.." I finally managed out, through Mycroft's voice. Mycroft only raised his eyebrows, and settled back in his chair, thoughtfully. He twisted an umbrella around in his hand that was once laying against his chair's side.

"Oh, could he now, Dr. Watson?"

"Of course," my lip trembled nervously, and I did not say my answer as strongly as I would have liked. I prayed in my mind for Mycroft not to take notice, but I knew it was no use hiding now that I was faced with the elder of the Holmes' family. If Holmes could read my personality and past like a open book, and I could only imagine Mycroft glancing at my cover like a five cent paperback and predicting my death.

"Really Doctor Watson, come now. _Think_. My brother is a prideful, sometimes pretentious, and often insulting man. He is cold, calculating, and it is in our blood to break the boundary of personal affections to see the logic in the madness of people." Mycroft paused, glancing back to me. "We make people feel uncomfortable, intrigued, degraded, and question their intellect and dulling lives. We do not care what others do; or think, or say, or act. What makes them happy, or sad. _Feeling_, is illogical. Those rules apply to everyone we meet."

He paused.

"Except for _you_, perhaps. My brother is a very secretive man, you know this, Doctor. I doubt...well, I doubt he had the _heart_ to take away any means of time away from you and your happiness with your wife. Sherlock can see many things; but is his also blind in his mastery. But, make no mistake, Doctor Watson. He saw how very happy _she_ made you."

"I…," I stumbled out, glancing around the room, and wishing I could find my way for the door. I suddenly wished I had listened to Holmes- what in the world was going on? A guilt trip? A confession? If this is what Mycroft thought as a 'casual discussion', I worried for rare 'intimate' moments. I sighed, giving up. ".. don't understand."

Mycroft slowly smiled, and then stood, his height, I noticed, surpassing Holmes' by over two inches. He then turned, and I was left in his shadow that the beams of damp starlight carved out among the floor. I could sense a strange, dramatic tone filling up the silence of the room- and it nearly comforted me; as if I was in the presence of Holmes' and not his elder brother.

"Doctor Watson, you of all people understand that my brother and I are _not_ modest men." He turned back again, slightly, to take in my form. "Sherlock is probably the second, or third smartest man in London, in his own right."

I tilted my head abit at Mycroft's little ploy, falling for even petting his own ego. "And…you?"

"Oh? I _know_, I am the smartest man in London, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said in his warm way, staring disinterestedly at the handle of his umbrella. "But you see, what does that statement even withhold? It means, that whilst you were occupied, my brother took it upon himself to write trivial things. He had, and always has, really, the most intelligent man in London at his disposal. Let's us not even count my connections to governmental control- or the sly fact that we are blood related, and I am not some stranger. But yet..he still chose only to write such silly things to someone with such potential to help, as _me._"

After a moment of my continued speechlessness, Mycroft chuckled darkly.

"That _means_, Doctor Watson, that Sherlock is lost with anyone, but _you_. It does not matter intelligence or connection, or even blood. It is because I am not you- that no one else in this entire _universe_, is you, that he cannot function. Whether you see it or not- and being most considerate of your appealing, over-whelming even, knack of modesty that you possess about your person, I'd say you do not see that."

I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach quite hard, and I lowered my gaze to Mycroft's shinning shoes. "…Cannot 'function', you say?"

"Well of course. It only takes the desperation of an entire _year_ of hopelessness to get my younger brother to write me; but I still find the notion heart-warming." Mycroft smiled, and he turned back to me, leaning over his umbrella in a charismatic way. 'Does that upset you, Doctor?

"You're not quite answering my concern. What do you mean by 'cannot function'?" I crossed my hands nervously in my lap, my nerves on a very tight rope. Mycroft's eyes tightened, as the silence pressed on in the room like a weighted stone.

"I think you understand exactly what I mean, Doctor Watson."

I suddenly gripped the arms of the chair in a maddening fury- the flame in my chest lit once more- stressful realization and worry burning up my insides. _No! No! He cannot possibly mean- he cannot possibly mean!_- My mind whirled with images of Holmes' cocaine filled slipper- his needles, and other tonic drugs. My worried thoughts rushed down like acid into my stomach, making me feel more ill as I re-lived repressed memories of watching, my heart beating maddeningly in my chest, when I'd return home to find Holmes' in some drug-induced stupor. Unknowing if he'd ever awaken. Unknowing if there was anything I could do to save him. Further still, I remembered the way I had to watch his body grow thinner from not eating. The nights I had to finally break down his iron will and force him to get well by my own hand- or wait until he was finally too weak to stand- and too stubborn to admit it. The days that turned to weeks of him not sleeping- all whilst on a case with me. With me, at his side. And that was _only_ when I was at his side.  
_  
My God_..what happened while I was away?

It did not take Mycroft's impeccable nature to sense my panic. "You needn't be so alarmed, Doctor. I assure you, Sherlock is in the healthiest state since you've returned."

"But that is just _it!"_ I finally cried out, my eyes wide. "He..he seemed fine! Fine! How could such mannerism- all the time of abuse be hidden, just as I arrived? I'd have to see some percussion! I'm a _doctor_, God dammit!"

My curse hung in the air, stinging my lips. My hands shook, along with the weakness running down my bad leg. I quickly ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. I'm a _doctor_! Why? Why didn't I see such changes? Why didn't I know? Why? _Why?_

"How? How did he hide such things? He's the most self-destructive person I know of! I'm his doctor, I should have been alerted! I should have known! Better yet, I should have seen for myself! Said I, my voice rising, words flooding out of my mouth and filling the room.

"My brother is a meticulously secretive person. It is not above himself to hide such factors as perfectly as he can." Mycroft reasoned quietly. I clenched my fists, understanding that he indeed had a point, but I was just so angry- once more my moodswung on it's string of stress and frustration, and before I realized it, I was finally forcing the words that had been eating me up for months out of my mouth.

"You know, my wife- Mary- s-she..she was perfectly healthy, when we met? And at our wedding? And at..at….," my teeth chattered now, I bit my lip until I tasted blood. "I…..I didn't see it in time..and then, I was too late..to..to save her.."

I sat down heavily in my chair, my strength suddenly whisked from me as I finally confessed to a breathing person how I felt. Mycroft stood perfectly still the entire time, however. I say the word _breathing_; but Mycroft reactions could have rivaled a statue.

Finally, he spoke again.

"Grief, is a peculiar thing, Doctor Watson. No human grieves the same way, regardless if it is even over the same thing. You are facing it through self-doubt; you blame yourself for her death. The bold solider in you wants to bare the entirety of it all- the doctor in you- your love, and passion of caring for others- is being cracked and abused like you're trying to dismantle your very nature. As if that will grant you justification for the madness of life…of her death."

Mycroft took a short intake of breath, and said his next words very slowly to me, as if I was some kind of invalid.

" What we must _understand_, Doctor, is that there is not always an answer. Unlike a poem, or a novel, sometimes there is no rhyme or reason for the things that happen to us. All we can really do is try to continue on, and perhaps make sense of it all later. If there is any feeling I try to understand, it is _grief_. Grief is _logical_- it is emotion turning into _reason_. You must try to find that reason in a more productive way."

I did not know if he was staring at me, or not, as he spoke. I placed my head in my hands, trying to breathe normally. He continued on.

"My brother, who is also a peculiar thing, used it by writing to me- and even while he often…abused himself, so to speak, externally, to try to escape it; he still felt the pain inside. He still _missed_ you." Mycroft paused again, collecting his thoughts once more.

"What I am trying to say, Doctor Watson, is that even someone such as _Sherlock Holmes_, asked for help, in his own way."

I raised my head, and was locked into Mycroft's dark stare that held my breath in my lungs with its dire intensity.

"I know you think that my brother cannot get past his own discompassionate way to help you, good Doctor.., but it is humorus..touching, even, that you yourself need him in such a way. I believe there is no one else but Sherlock Holmes that can get you out of this spiral, as much as you revive him from his own despair."

I tossed my head away from him, wordless. Holmes was right with Mycroft seeing the whole of everything. I was… a-taken back, to start an understatement.

"Perhaps, if you try to see how Holmes dealt with your absence, you may find a way to bridge the gap between you two." Mycroft quickly strolled across the polished wooden floors, and reached behind his desk, to pull out a massive stack of white enveloped letters, tied with a scarlet ribbon.

"Are those the letters he wrote to you?" I inquired.

"The very ones, and my responses, give or take. He wrote so often, that I respond only to every third one, or so. Sometimes just to pester him. He, of course, gave them to me here- never to even present the slightest possible chance of you or the land lady discovering them." Mycroft smiled lazily again. I quickly stood, and Mycroft walked me to the bulk of the door, but before I stepped outside into the chill, he quickly nudged the stack into a bag, and pushed it into my hands.

"A pleasure talking to you, as always, Doctor Watson." Mycroft's smiled disclosed to me as we faced the outside world, and the door soon followed. I turned my collar up against the wind, and decided to return to Baker Street as soon as possible and as Holmes' had threatened, walking down the steps to find a cab already waiting for me. To tell you in all confidential honestly, my dear friend, I am still unsure if reading these letters is more intrusive into Holmes' privacy..but well, they are such curious things. And I am a busybody.

_**Author's note:** Please review, and let me know what you think..?_


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